Berlioz's nativity oratorio has been described by a leading authority on the composer as ''almost cinematic''; and perhaps taking its cue from this, a television presentation of the work was broadcast at the end of December. On the merits and demerits of John Wood's visual treatment this is not the place to expatiate; but with memories of Losey's Don Giovanni in mind I approached this two-record set with some misgivings. Film soundtracks often fail to convince in their own right when heard in listening conditions completely different from those for which they were designed. In this case my fears proved groundless: the recording, a digitally mastered stereo re-mix of the TV track, is technically excellent, with very good balance and, in particular, extremely vivid orchestral reproduction (as in immediately evident in the Roman patrol at the start of Part 1). The performance, with a first-class ad hoc chorus (trained by John Alldis), is well prepared, assured and musicianly; but I regret to say that somehow I don't see myself being irresistibly drawn to repeat it very often. Efficient as it is, it rarely rivals Sir Colin Davis's 1961 Argo version in intensity (though its sound quality is far superior); and the singers, good as they are, mostly show less insight than their opposite numbers in the two alternative recordings. It is almost as if they had left the TV images to make verbal points rather than illuminate them purely vocally.
Grudging though it may seem, only one of the five principals struck me as wholly satisfying—William Shimell as Joseph (who is alloted, as in the Bible story, only a subsidiary role), with a simple, unaffected reading, conveying increasing desperation at the repeated rebuffs by the townsfolk of Sais. Mary is sung by another newcomer to the catalogue, Fiona Kimm: her voice has warmth and beauty, but her words are seldom distinct, and she does not rival Dame Janet Baker (on Philips) for commitment or Elsie Morison (Argo) for innocent quality. Richard Van Allen sounds gaunt and haunted as Herod, and his splendid low register is most impressive, but he makes little of inflections of meaning, and he constantly attacks notes from below—a mannerism which becomes distracting and tiresome. The clearest articulation comes from Anthony Rolfe Johnson, a tenderly mellifluous, if somewhat over-mild, narrator, and from Benjamin Luxon, whose voice however, noble as it is, emerges with an unusual amount of vibrato.
It was misguide, in my opinion, to issue this recording not with a translation of the text but with an ''adaption (sic) by Anthony Burgess—i.e a performing version designed to fit the music which inevitably departs considerably from the original. (Its use in sub-titles for the television programme broke a basic rule in TV musical grammar by setting up a contradiction between eye and ear.) A minor mystery is why three flautists and a harpist are credited for the trio played in the Ishmaelite house to entertain the weary travellers. Since it is improbable that a 'bumper-up' was required for this, is what we hear a composite recording with different players?'